


Scars, Cords

by quigonejinn



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Face Slapping, Light BDSM, M/M, dirty_kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quigonejinn/pseuds/quigonejinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for <a href="http://dirty-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org">dirty_kinkmeme</a> prompt of <i>Q/Bond, Dom/sub. Q as the Dom. Mostly verbal sparring and Q getting off on being withholding; slapping also encouraged.</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars, Cords

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [th_esaurus](http://th-esaurus.dreamwidth.org/) on [dirty_kinkmeme](http://dirty-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org) on _Q/Bond, Dom/sub. Q as the Dom. Mostly verbal sparring and Q getting off on being withholding; slapping also encouraged._

Here is the setup: Bond is on his knees in a hotel room. He is completely naked, and his wrists are tied together behind his back. There is a black bag over his head with a drawstring at the bottom, and the cords hang down over his collarbones. Two and a half inches to the side of the left cord is his scar from the bullet he took in Istanbul.

You don't know what the scar on the side of the right cord is from, nor do you know what to do with a naked, semi-competently tied-up Bond, either; the drawstring bag over the head was the one that came with the room for putting shoes in if you wanted to leave them outside for the _personal service coordinator_. You found them in the closet while trying to figure out what to do next, and Bond, hands already tied behind his back with the shoelaces out of his shoes, and when you were going through the room, a little panicked because you were trying to figure out what you could do, what you could possibly do, you picked up the bag and stared at it. 

Bond laughed and said this is what happened when you let lab rats out into nice hotels, and -- 

So you put one of them on Bond's head, and now, after looking at Bond for another moment, you sit down on the side of bed and put your feet on his back. You reach over and grab the remote. You turn on the telly, and Bond makes this annoyed noise when he hears it come on: he is fine with your shoes on his bare back, one foot on each scarred, muscled shoulder, but he doesn't want the television on? 

"Hold still," you says, and when Bond opens his mouth to complain, you add, while inspiration is still with you, "Be quiet." 

In the middle of taking a breath to complain, Bond stops. 

He holds still. He stays quiet. 

You're suddenly so hard you're dizzy. 

*

What do you do with a man who can, with ease and a clear conscience, kill you in about thirty seconds with his bare hands? Less, you'd guess, if he to do it quickly and not make it hurt. But he is hard on his equipment, and when he comes back from Nairobi with a suitcase full of destroyed material, you take it back, sniff, and make a comment about proper stewardship of Her Majesty's goods. He looks at you for a long moment and says, _make me_. 

There is a long beat after he says that while you color up to your eyebrows because you have a sudden mental image of him bent over your lab bench, face in the briefcase, hands braced against the side of the bench, and you gripping him by the collar. 

Also, coincidentally, with his dick heavy and hot in your hand. 

Being a double-0, he sees you flush and knows exactly what you're thinking. 

*

So: You let him take you out to dinner. You let him get you a little drunk. Afterwards, you suggest going back to your flat, but he looks at you for a long moment. He says he knows how much Her Majesty pays its quartermaster, and he doesn't fancy going back to your shared flat and smell your flatmate's curry and chips. 

"You're wrong," you say, triumphantly, because you're a little drunk, and you tend to feel good about yourself when drunk. "My flatmate is allergic to curry. Turmeric gives her asthma." 

He doesn't suggest going back to his place. Instead, he pulls out his expense account card and books the two of you a room in a nice hotel. 

*

Putting on the television on buys you a good twenty-two minutes to think, and you think, feverishly, frantically. The result is this: after the show is over, you take your feet off his shoulders and walk over to the minibar: you've never stayed in a hotel nice enough where they just give you the liquor because the room is already paid for. If you turned around, if you opened up the windows, you know you could see most of W1 stretched out in front of you through the window. 

You pour yourself some Scotch even though you don't particularly like the stuff, and you come over to the bed. You put the Scotch on the bed; Bond hears the ice cubes clink against each other, and you see the black bag over his head bell out a little: he just let out a breath, and you take your shoes off, then strip off your socks. You settle back on the bed and pull the hood off his head. 

Bond blinks at you. 

You wet your fingers with a little Scotch and dribble some on his lips. He licks it off. You tip forward a little Scotch into his mouth, and he swallows. You have a little yourself. It's the closest you've come to a kiss with him this whole night, and you set the tumbler back on the bed, then slap him in the face, as hard as you can. 

He blinks some more, even more slowly. You've told him to be quiet, so he doesn't make a comment about how he's been slapped harder by eighty-year old grandmothers, and when he doesn't, you undo your belt, unzip the fly, and slide your trousers down to your knees. You draw your dick out; it's about eye-level for Bond, who is kneeling by the side of the bed, and he looks from your dick back up to your face. 

"You can make noise now," you say, and Bond takes the hint: he leans forward and sucks noisily, eagerly with his hands still tied behind his back. He mostly thinks that blowing you involves taking as much of your cock as he can at a time and pulling hard, but you touch the back of his head, want to suggest, maybe -- and he slides all the way it off, runs it over his lips, and then, with bright blue eyes in a weather-beaten, hard-lived face, slowly, carefully, while looking you in the eye, he runs your cock over his lips. 

You pull back; he leans forward. You pull back some more and grab as much of you can of his short hair and hold his head still: you come on his face, and he licks it off, slowly, those eyes still fixed on your face. He takes a deep breath, flexes his shoulders, and breaks the shoelaces. Then, he climbs on top of you in the bed and turns you onto your stomach. 

*

You wake alone in the hotel room, sore, and you don't see Bond for three months, until you're outfitting him for a kill mission in Kuala Lumpur.


End file.
